I was born Jeffrey Lane Fortenberry, with an o, thank you very much, on December 27, 1960 in Baton Rouge, Louisiana. Baton Rouge is French for "red stick," but that sounds pretty dirty to me so I'm glad they say it in French.

The Louisiana I was born in was segregated, though this came to an end in 1964. The racial injustice of the Jim Crow South caused me great personal pain, as I once explained on the floor of Congress after interrupting my colleague, Congressman Al Green, as he related his less relevant experience as a black man born in the same state. For my eighth birthday, my parents threw me a party at a skating rink that still practiced segregation. And oh, if only you could have seen me pirouetting on that hard wood—or should I say floor to avoid any filthy-minded connotations. I had invited all the children from my class, as was customary. However, my parents informed me that my classmate Philip, who was African American, had attempted to join the party upon my invitation but had been turned away at the door because the rink was for whites only. "Oh," I said mournfully, before tossing a downcast look into my iced milk. I hit the floor with a half loop, but it lacked just a little bit of my normal verve, thinking about Philip. Therefore I entirely understand what my black colleague was describing by way of racism when I interrupted to tell of my own birthday trauma.

Eventually I made my way to Lincoln, Nebraska, where I worked for a publishing company. You may now wish to ask your little ones to turn away for a moment as I relay this part.

Originally, the company I worked for was called Peed Corporation. Yes, I apologize, but it is important you know the bald truth. It was called Peed Corporation after its owner, Mr.Tom Peed. We will likely never know how his ancestor, John "Old Yellow" Peed, was first given that name, but generations later my boss, Mr. Peed, was living with a name that had a foul whiff about it, mocked by schoolchildren who had never learned respect from the business end of a belt. It was therefore my major undertaking as head of Public Relations to change its name. This name change came after extensive morality testing to ensure no filth nor mockery could be made from it. First we considered Chimney Rock Publishing, but my priest informed me that from a distance the logo resembled a "Sodom salute." Next Mr. Peed suggested The Sower Publishing and I had to take him aside and inform him that we would in no way associate with that wicked monument to onanism forever spilling his seed on the ground from atop our Capitol. At last, after praying for the Lord to show me an unfilthy image, I decided upon Sandhills Publishing.

It was when I was working in magazine publishing that I courted my future wife, Mrs. Jeffrey Lane Fortenberry. How I do fondly remember the evenings I would call upon her and be invited into the parlor where her mother or aunt would sit as chaperone to make sure this young buck from Louisiana kept his eyes above her lacey high collar and his conversation oriented toward matters of salvation. Once the Peed stain had been removed from my place of employment, I was finally of clean enough conscience to ask for her hand.

My first foray into the corrupt matters of Caesar was in 1997, when I was elected to the City Council of Lincoln, Nebraska. I ran on a morality platform, and allow me to tell you what that meant. It meant for starters that no man upon God's green earth should even allow the filthy thought cross his mind of inserting his manly member into any orifice of any person real or fictitious except for the ripe, fertile Tunnel of Eve of his lawfully wedded wife, during only that time of the month when the Egg Crate is open for business, and even then being careful to avoid any contact with Satan's Doorbell, which lies exactly to her tunnel's anterior, ever threatening to reduce a woman into a hopeless, knob-gobbling Jezebel should her whorish desires be even inadvertently indulged. Besides that, the morality platform means that once a man has performed his horizontal duties, using only the bare minimum number of thrusts required to expel his holy homunculus, the lucky recipient of his sacred spunk must tenderly and graciously incubate his young until natural birth sunders the babe from her body. To be certain, there is no shortage of women who protest that "rape" or "incest" or "the life of the mother" should allow them to sin, but the biblical morality platform is quite clear that these Gomorrahan harlots should not be heeded.

In 2005 I began my tenure as Congressman for Nebraska's First. During that time, I have worked tirelessly to pass a bill on average once every five years, speaking to Nebraska's most pressing needs, such as the 2015 Boys Town Centennial Commemorative Coin Act. More recently, as we face social unrest and a global public health crisis, I have put my energies into a top priority: reminding folks to eat beef.

Be sure to follow my weekly "Fort Report," which reminds you with every issue that the first syllable of my last name rhymes with report and not repart. And when you fill out your November ballot, remember to "support Fort" because the only alternative is to "pick Bolz."